Give In
by Dawn of Chaos
Summary: Christmas? Holidays? Not something he'd ever partake in, and haven't.


One could frankly call him a 'sourpuss' when it comes down to the joy of the holidays near the end of the year and the beginning of the next. He never has been one to get truly excited for decorating a tree or even giving someone a small token of appreciation. In fact, as the years have dwindled on in the young man's life he's found that he has very little appreciation for anyone around him. To him; they're weak, sniveling, snot rags that have nothing better to do than find an excuse to be even more fake than usual.

Living on the streets and in orphanages from the ripe age of the six could have something to do with it. He's never had anyone to take care of him or for him to take care of in return. He's always simply looked out for himself with a scowl engraved on his sharp countenance. Which is exactly why the young man that's taken an interest in him has no idea about any of his past, not knowing that what the young man's doing could jeopardize his fragile state of mind.

The soles of his boots crunch into the snow as he stomps up the stone pathway littered with snowflakes to get to the front door of his apartment. The appearance of the snow, as well as the depth of it, makes him wish he had an apartment at least one floor up instead of on ground level. He yanks one hand out of his navy jacket with his keys clutched in his fist. In one swift motion he has the door unlocked and opened with himself already inside and the door shut once again. After dropping his keys to the bowl on the table beside the door he shrugs out of his jacket as fiercely as a cat trying to shake away the water from its fur.

He hangs his jacket up on the brass hook on the wall before slipping his hands back into his pockets, save for this time they're sheathed in his black jeans. The white shirt clinging to his frame gives full proof to the muscular chest that's hide beneath it, especially when he stretches his arm up to run his hand through his spiky, cerulean hair. But as he takes the corner into the living room his breath hitches in his throat.

A well lit tree sits in the corner by the window; lights of all colors twinkle on and off in synchronized pattern, old ornaments hang tightly from the scrawny branches, and a glowing star sits atop the point leaning off kilter. What truly catches the glare from his sharp, light blue eyes is the young man stretching to hang yet another glass ball on the tree. To his eyes it's partly the fact that a Christmas tree is standing in their living room and the man he loves apparently doesn't get the fact that he hates the holiday, but mostly it's the fact that he had left this morning and there wasn't any decorations.

"What in the hell are you doing Ichigo?"

Soft, brown eyes alight with joy are turned to him once the young man, Ichigo, has the ball hooked securely to the last aviable branch. A sweet smile lifts his thin lips with ease as he rubs at the back of his mop of short, orange hair. "You didn't buy a tree, so I got one."

"Why?"

The word is spat from his lips; his lethally-short temper almost to the point of exploding even as Ichigo rolls his eyes to the side. Luckily for Ichigo he's learned how to handle these situations, for the blue-haired man stalks forward with rage. "Relax Grimmjow, it's just a holiday, don't be an ass," he says as he picks up another ball despite the scarce space on the tree.

The second he does Grimmjow swipes at it, the ball slinging from Ichigo's fingertips to land on the wooden floor and shattering into glittering pieces. Grimmjow turns curtly on his heel, clearly fuming and intending on just walking out the door without another look back. Ichigo latches onto his wrist and yanks him back, the force of it sending them tumbling backwards and onto the floor, barely missing the coffee table. Rolling over atop Grimmjow, Ichigo sits on his stomach with a fierce determination that Grimmjow knows he can't beat. "My family is coming to see us and if you want your gift you'll shut up and go with it."

A single eyebrow quirks up, "And my gift is?" Ichigo leans down; ghosting his lips over the blue haired man's ear as he whispers the words with such softness that Grimmjow barely understands them.

_...Barely..._

Maybe it's the threat of not getting this special gift that Grimmjow stubbornly nods, promising that he won't enjoy it or Ichigo's dad or perhaps it's the underlying message that he wants their relationship to work. Ichigo smirks triumphantly and stands up, preparing to head further into the house. "Good, now clean up your mess and don't break anything else."

A growl reverberates in Grimmjow's throat as he sits up, glaring at Ichigo's back as he walks down the hall. He'd let the odd man get his way this time, but next year he won't be blindsided, he'll be prepared.


End file.
